The plan was perfect; every detail had been meticulously reviewed and all possible angles had been considered weeks in advance. Maps depicting the topography, distances between checkpoints and water sources were printed. The gear was all packed that would provide shelter from any possible condition. Contacts had been made to experts on this section of trail, to tie up any lose ends or fill in gaps of information that could not be found on-line. In a way, I was more prepared for this adventure, than I was for the work conference that brought me to Southern California. It would take a perfect storm to derail what would be a once in a lifetime experience; a long run on the longest continuous footpath in the world, a trail stretching over 2,650 miles. The Pacific Crest Trail, or PCT begins near Campo, CA along the US/Mexico border, traverses through California, Oregon and Washington, before reaching its northern terminus at the Canadian border. These are the types of adventures that make the everyday training run and the monotony of the mundane miles all worth while.
Upon arrival in San Diego on Sunday, I started to pay attention to the 10 day forecast. Most models had called for gorgeous weather through Wednesday, with bright sunshine and highs in the upper 70's. This was a great escape from the abnormally cold weather that I left behind in Northern Alabama. Beyond mid week, there were desperate reports on the conditions, with some sources calling for rain and others for clear conditions. Despite the differing forecasts, one thing that was consistent was that the temperatures would be cool in the mountains on Thursday, with a ten degree range of 40 to 50 degrees between the low and the high.
The week progressed along swimmingly, with a great mix of running and long hours of work. This was highlighted on Monday with a run from downtown San Diego to the village of La Jolla. On each trip I've made to this area, now three in 4 years, I have managed to find the time to make it to La Jolla to take in the sweeping views along the sandy cliffs. Watching the sunrise/sunset at Scripps Park has almost become a right of passage for me. Some of the best photos I have ever taken are from this area, capturing the peacefulness and serenity of the open waters. The coastline here ranks near the top of my list of places that I would love to call home. If I had more time on this glorious day, I would have easily turned around and run back to San Diego, turning a 17 mile run into a 34 mile run; I was just that inspired by the landscape that it nearly warranted missing some work, but I knew others were waiting on me to show up on the conference floor for preparations.
The days passed along, from Monday to Tuesday and from Wednesday to Thursday. On Thursday morning, I had gone to the airport after shaking out my legs on a five mile run, to pick up a rental car. The compact rental from Hertz would be the means of transportation from the Hyatt Convention Center, to the Boulder Oaks Campground, 55 miles to the east along Interstate 8. This is where my journey would be begin and end, with as many miles out and back that my legs would carry me. The conference closed at 1:30 local time and after packing up my equipment, I made it back tot he hotel and with a quick change, was out the door. Along the way, I surfed through the AM radio dial, picking up some Spanish radio, then ESPN radio and finally locating an updated forecast. It was definitely going to rain, with predicted rainfall totals ranging from 1/2" at the coast to an inch or more in the mountains. It would just be a question of when it would start, as the skies were still very blue with only some light clouds. It seemed to take forever to get out of the city, but as I did, the outline of mountains toward the east started to take shape. I was amazed by the fact that despite having been here in 2005 and 2007, that I was now experiencing something new, by escaping the coast and heading inland toward the Cleveland National Forest. I had my gear in the passenger seat and I raced along the freeway, beaming with excitement for what I was about to start. I updated my Facebook status one last time from my Blackberry, and as I passed signs marking the elevation, I added comments to my status. First 2000', then 3000', then 4000', before returning back down to 3000' near my exit from the Interstate.
At exit 51, I turned off to the south and drove along Old Highway 80. Normally I would not pay attention to exit numbers, but as I looked at the map I noticed that it had been quite a few miles since the last exit and the sign along the highway noted the the next exit was still 3 more miles away. This area was very desolate, as the road wound between peaks and down through valleys. On a summer day, this would make for a great road trip from San Diego to Yuma in a convertible. Based on my conversation with Ed Martinez, the race director for the PCT 50k, he had instructed me to park at a turn off on the side of the road, just outside of the campground, to avoid having to purchase a national forest permit. In his last email, he also noted that the campground was closed due to frog mating season; we quickly mentioned that this was a legitimate statement, despite the absurdity of how it sounded. I pulled off onto the gravel and began to change from my jeans and Rocket City Marathon shirt. I had brought along my Mountain Mist tech shirt for this run and I pulled it over my head, dawned my hat and and grabbed my back pack. I had enough food for a day on the trail, 90oz of water and extra clothes to help combat any conditions. At 3:15 pm, I started my gps and stepped onto the trail heading north. I snapped a self portrait, using the tail fin of the rental car as my tripod.
Fairly quickly, I came across a gate, which I assume helped to keep animals out of the interstate right-a-way. I ran under the interstate and then through a series of switchbacks to the other end of the right of way.
There was no warm up period before the quick ascent, so my legs became fatigued quickly. After reaching a runnable section of the trail, the weariness had worn off. The first section of the trail alternated between loose rocks and soft sand, making the footing poor at best. I had expected to cover no more than 5 miles in the first hour, given the trail conditions and the steady climb from three to four thousand feet. After the switch backs, the PCT travels along the crest of peaks, not quite at the top, but high enough that the views were very picturesque. I ran with the camera in one hand, taking a snapshot whenever I could. It took a few miles before I was out of sight and sound from the highway. I had hoped to reach the middle of no where faster, but the desert mountains lacked the thick tree cover of the eastern mountains that I was accustomed to. I enjoyed the views that this openness provided, but it also made it difficulty in seeing the next few miles ahead and how the trail hugged the mountains, before disappearing around the bend.
At about the 4 mile mark, I crossed what would be the last sign of civilization, with the paved road of Kitchen's Creek Rd. This road was shown on the maps that I had printed, and now were stowed safely inside a plastic bag in my camel back, to prevent getting wet, should the rain from the forecast move in. I stopped to take a few self portraits next to the PCT sign post before moving on.
The trail had very few markings, but there were no other side trails, so it was not difficult to stay on track and avoid getting lost. I had forgotten to start my GPS after taking off, but within a few minutes realized that wasn't tracking my position, so I started it up. I estimated that I had only lost maybe a half a mile. Running around the next bend reminded me of the Mount Leconte trail on the AT near New Found Gap. The trail was less than a foot wide, with a steep cliff on my left and a drastic drop off to my right. One mis-step and there would be nothing to prevent tumbling for a 1000 feet. Some loose rock on the trail made this section a little treacherous, and thus slow going. I came across several stunning rock formations that also warranted photos.
Coming around the bend, reveled yet another set of never ending peaks and a trail that continued to slope upward. Looking ahead, there was an ominous sky hanging over a nearby mountain. It was difficult to tell if the trail went toward the dark sky, or if it would turn sharply and head around it. I was about 5 miles into the run and hoped for the later, or it would end up being a long and wet run. I stopped at about the 1 hour mark to grab some nourishment and to create a video snapshot of my initial assessment of the trail. Some of the best memories that I have of running 22 miles on the AT last February were from the video dialogue that I had created using my digital camera. I was going through a rare patch of foliage, with some green leafed trees running parallel to the trail, in a narrow stretch. I used my gorilla pod to attach the camera to one of these trees and record some thoughts that I had been gathering while running along the trail.
The trail profile showed that I would continue to climb up another 1000' to the point where I thought I might turn around and head back. This meant more switch backs and rocky ascents. I was moving along at about 5 to 5.5 miles an hour, given my brief stops to take pictures. I had estimated that after the turn and running back in the dark under the light of my headlamp, that I would average about the same, given that I would be coming back downhill, aiding my speed, but be limited by the same footing and darkness. I passed a sign on a dirt road that pointed off toward Cibbets Flat. The trail map noted that water was available down just a half a mile. I still had a pack full of fluids so had no need to check out the spring below the trail.
After an hour and a half, I had gone above the 5,280' mark, running at a mile above sea level. It had started to lightly sprinkle as well, forcing me to put the camera away and just focus on the trail. I had thoughts at this point of turning around. I honestly pondered making this a 16 mile run, and not a 20+ mile run. The reasoning would be to keep the majority of the run in the daylight, and to avoid the heavy rains that were now eminently ahead. For foolish reasons, I decided to go on to at least the 10 mile mark, making it an even 20. As I recall, I thought that when I would retell this story to friends and family, that it wouldn't seem like much of an adventure if I ran less than 20 miles or 4 hours. So I moved forward, for all of the wrong reasons. I have few regrets in my life but at times I look back and question my judgment.
The sun had long set, and given that I was now in a green valley between peaks, even if it were still in the sky, it would not provide any light. I reached the 10 mile mark and decided that this would be my turning point. I remembered back to the 1/2 mile section that I didn't have my gps turned on for, so in reality I had gone out 10 1/2 miles, so this would end up being a 21 mile run. Earlier in the day I had gone out for an easy 5 mile run, just to shake out my legs and make room for the apple fritter that I had been craving since the one I had the day before, at the Starbucks in the hotel. This meant that the log book would go on to show a marathon in the distance column for this day in history. I found a tree to hang my pack and provide some shelter from the rain, which had picked up and with the darkness moving in, the temperature was now dropping. I went into my dry clothes and added another layer on top. I was still feeling great and in my second video update, I noted how peaceful it was to have 100 square miles of countryside to myself, while at the same time, i did feel isolated from the rest of the world. I had a few gel blasts to keep up my energy stores as well.
After making the turn, it was like the sky opened up and the rain started to fall in sheets. It was still light out, so I was able to make very good time in the first two miles, despite the rain and now the muddy terrain and slippery rocks. I had some minor numbness in my fingers, as the temperature was still dropping. I only had another 8+ miles to go and was moving fast enough that my internal core body temperature was still fine. I kept telling myself that this run would make me stronger mentally, given the conditions. I finally had to pull out my headlamp, as the frequency of tripping over rocks began to the increase, and with the speed I was moving, I wanted to make sure I had some light to guide my way.
Sometime around mile 12+ is when I started to worry. The rain was now coming in sideways with low hanging fog, it left me with extremely poor visibility of no more than my next foot strike. I was ready for running in the dark, running when tired, running in the rain and various combinations of these elements. The only thing I had not considered was all of these happening at the same time, along with the zero visibility. I was only able to see my next step which brought my pace had slowed to less than 5 miles an hour. With the rain falling steady, I ran with my head down, so the rain would fall of my brim and not further incapacitate my sight. I ran this was for another two miles, celebrating slightly with each beep from my gps, indicating that i was another mile closer to the rental car. I was back at the sign for Cibbets Flat and found some shelter. I had waited to put on my outer shell mostly because I didn't want to stop in the elements without any protection. As a pulled out my dry clothes, I noticed that my hands were shaking slightly. Clearly I was cold, but while running I hadn't really noticed how bad it had gotten. The external temperature was now in the upper 30's by my estimate, despite the fact that I had dropped down 1000' since the turn. I was very cold, but was still making good time and knew that I didn't have much time left before getting back tot he warm and dry car.
The next mile was one of the worst I can ever recall. I was back in the area where the trail was narrow, the footing was poor and despite the fact that I could not see the drop off, I knew that it was on my left. I needed to be very careful. With the reduced visibility, I was now moving along at about 4 miles an hour and had encountered the one thing that I had not prepared for in the weeks leading up to this run; an ever falling body temperature, brought on by the wind, rain, darkness and low visibility. This recipe slowed the pace and prevented me from moving fast enough to keep my body temperature up. I was shivering pretty badly now, not just in my hands, but all over. I had only experienced this once before and that was last spring after the Boston Marathon. In that race, my body temperature had gone dangerously low and I had developed stage one hypothermia. My fingernails had turned blue and despite feeling coherent, apparently I was not. Having felt this before, I knew what it was like and that I was nearing that state. I was afraid to take my gloves off to check my fingernails, but figured they weren't a normal color. I had more than 5 miles to go and at this rate, it would take me 75 minutes to get back to the car.
Despite the ever worsening conditions, I remained calm. Throughout the course of the work week, I had been under constant stress, speaking in front of groups as large as 50 people at a time for hours on end. After one particularly stressful software demonstration, a customer and close friend mentioned that even when the demo software had faltered, I recovered well and drew the attention from the crowd away from the center screen, enabling a co-worker to recover the software. He said that even under close scrutiny, I remained calm, cool and collected. This stuck with me throughout the week and came back to me at this time. I figured that I had two options; I could panic and put myself at further risk or I could remain calm, giving me the best opportunity to come out of this situation unscathed. I was glad that I had my superhero cape on underneath my many layers, because it gave me the strength to choose the later. I stopped to check my cell phone for reception. If I needed to phone for help, I would need a signal to get out. I was at a low point between peaks and my phone displayed indicated that it was searching for a signal. I decided to run another mile and check it again, knowing that I would be near the Kitchen's Creek Road crossing and that a signal may be possible. I stowed my phone back away inside a hotel plastic garment bag and then in my backpack for now.
In the next mile I actually felt like I was warmer than before. In having done some research on hypothermia, I remembered that this was only a false sign of comfort and really indicated that the condition was moving from stage 1 to stage 2. Yet, I still remained calm in the face of adversity. I recognized the signs of hypothermia and was experienced enough to know that it would be very dangerous for me to be out in these conditions for another hour or more. I decided that at the Kitchen's Creek Road crossing, I would try my cell phone again and call for help. I would swallow my pride and take my health and condition and the concern of others into consideration and do the right thing. It was at this time that I realized that I was not invincible. So many times before I had blatantly looked into the face of danger and laughed; done things that carried risk without flinching; living a life where I was not afraid of anything. I needed help and was going to ask for it. I was calm, but I was scared.
I got to Kitchen's Creek Road and dug out my cell phone. I had one bar and was able to dial out. Not knowing who else to call, given how far away from San Diego I was, I knew that 911 was my best bet. I dialed it and after a brief recorded message from an operator, was put on hold out to abnormally high call volume. It was like a nightmare that I couldn't wake up from that was now only getting worse and took an unbelievable turn when I lost the signal. I tried walking around, holding the cell phone up in the air (while in a plastic bag) hoping that it was pick up a signal. After what seemed like 10 minutes, I got a signal and dialed 911 again. Only this time, the cell tower signal was not picking up AT&T, but Movistar Wireless. I didn't notices this until someone picked up on the other end and was speaking Spanish. I hung up and tried again, only to have the same result. Apparently I was close enough to the border that my cell phone was now on a Mexican cell carrier. I thought to myself that I couldn't have scripted a worse situation than this and now my phone calls were being answered in Spanish. Still, I did not panic. I pulled out my map and decided that I would be better off heading down the paved road, than back onto the trail. It would leave me 3 miles away from the car, but would get me to the highway faster than the slow going of the trail. The only thing I did not know was how far away from the highway I actually was. This way I would just have to flag down a car on the freeway and they could drive me back to my car. Before leaving, I was smart enough to eat a blueberry Cliff Bar. I figured that some sugar would help me out, possibly providing a little rush of energy to carry me down the hill.
I started to move along, but my form was all over the board. My muscle movements were now being slightly compromised by the hypothermia and I couldn't do more than walk along. I realized that even if I made it to the highway, that the mere warmth of the car heater wasn't going to do the trick. I really did require medical attention, so I stepped off the road, got out of the rain and tried 911 again. It felt party foolish for being so close to the car and calling for help, but underneath it all, I knew it was the right thing to do. This time I was connected to the operator. I informed her of my emergency and she put me through to the San Diego county dispatcher. I was now trembling violently and could barely hold the phone, let alone get out many legible words. Somehow I was still coherent enough to accurately describe my condition and my location. I knew the nearest exit number from earlier and it helped her to locate my position on the map. I knew well enough to ask the dispatcher to repeat everything back to me, making sure that I had clearly stated it and she had clearly heard it. I held on the line while she dispatched the paramedics. They would be there in about 10 minutes and she held on the phone with me while I waited. I asked her if she could just talk with me and keep me engaged until they arrived. I can't tell you what we talked about, because I don't really remember, but know that it was enough to make me focus on everything else but being cold.
And just then, I could see headlights approaching. It wasn't an ambulance, but a pick up truck. I had my headlamp on, but with the poor visibility, the truck drove right past me, even while I waved my arms. Luckily, the break lights came on and the truck pulled over. A man stepped out and asked if I was the stranded hiker. So that's what I had become, a stranded hiker... I said yes and he introduced himself. I didn't catch his name, but he said that was some sort of off duty special forces member who was nearby and acting as the first responder. The dispatcher made sure that I passed his name and unit to her so she could be sure that he was legitimate (I can only assume?) before hanging up. He had me get into his truck and out of the rain. It was a little intimidating as he had a sidearm in the door. I didn't really make the connection as to how he found me, but sat in his truck for a few minutes until the paramedics arrived.
When they pulled up, they had me get into the ambulance and immediately covered me with blankets. I was surprised that they didn't have me take my wet clothes off, but I assumed they were out for my best interests. I was able to tell them my name and other vital information as they assessed my conditions. I still felt very coherent, but maybe I was just trying so hard to not lose it. In later research, I would read that stage 2 hypothermia was accompanied by mild confusion, even though the victim may appear alert. Now I wonder if I was making any sense at all when talking with the paramedics.
They took my temperature after about 15 minutes and it had risen to 94 degrees. This can only mean that I was in the 92 to 93 degree range when I was on the phone with the dispatcher. I commented to paramedic Osorio that 94 degrees didn't sound so good. He said that he had seen worse, but that it still wasn't good, especially since they had been warming me for a while. They finally had me take off my wet shirts/jacket and added heat bags to under my neck, under my arm pits and to my chest. At some point they drove down the mountain and back to the car, but I don't really remember when or much of the ride. They two responders were very nice and extremely helpful. They kept talking to me about where I was, why I was in the mountains, about running, about the tattoo on my back, etc. Again, like the conversation with the dispatcher, it wasn't that deep, but it was what I needed. I was still shaking so much that it hurt.
Osorio took my temperature again after awhile and it was now 96 degrees. I had moved out of stage 2 hypothermia thanks to their help and was now nearing normal. I knew that everything would be all right once I stopped shaking and the pain in my legs from cramping had become the primary concern. Per their policy, they recommended that I seek further medical attention and that they transport me to the nearest hospital. I figured that as my condition was steadily improving and the nearest hospital was probably an hour or more away back in the city, that I would decline and drive myself back. We were back at the car now, and Booby got out and started my car for me and grabbed my dry clothes. They took my temperature one last time and I was now just under 98 degrees and in the normal range. My heart rate had returned to normal after a period where it was was racing with the adrenaline of the situation. My blood sugar was normal, thanks to the smart move of eating the Cliff Bar before making the call. Finally I was ready to sit back up from the gurney and get dressed. I thanked Osorio and Watson profusely and later regretting not getting more information from them so that I could send my gratitude. I don't know the level of severe danger that I was actually in, so I can't say that they saved my life, but I know that I was able to walk away form the situation because they were there for me.
As I drove back to the city, with the heater on high, I tried to retrace my day and figure out what I had done right and where I had gone wrong. I was prepared for anything, but had not considered so many cards stacked against me at the same time. This will not stop me from experiencing the world through these adventures into the mountains and wilderness again, but I will do so with more caution. I had hoped to return with a tale describing the greatness of the trail, the scenic views, pictures that would make best selling postcards and video of me as I took it all in. What I came out with was a better respect for things that you can not control and a better understanding of myself.
It took the perfect storm of elements coming together all at once to define the backbone of this story and make me realize that I am not invincible, but it was my courage under pressure to remain calm, in a situation which would have engulfed most people, that will forever define me as a person.